Typhoon Dreams

The gaze of gods did not linger. No fanfare of trumpets marked the event. The chance friendship struck up by a few travelers in a coastal town went unnoticed by most, save the orc scouts whose demise it caused.

One seer found the night’s omens a curiosity, powerful signs with hazy futures. Surely such strong signs must be the paths of rulers, the violence surrounding them current and approaching battles. Perhaps the border skirmishes are more than they seem. Great power lies along some threads, the snip of fate’s scissors for others.

Something else must have watched the night’s signs, for that night the travelers dreamed…

…a raucous crowd of men and women with plumed hats and a profusion of gold ear and nose rings, standing before a stage… singly and in groups the slaves are led out cowering from their handlers as the bidding begins…

…a yellow robed man draws arcane runes bathed in the light of the crescent moon… he talks, gesturing expansively, to a bearded man in a crown… the crowned man meets with others, maps before them, the yellow robed man scribing a ritual scroll beside them. A single drop of red ink falls from his raised quill landing amidst the maps. The drop spreads as though it were a spilled inkwell, blotting out words: Orvia, Altus…